The Sergeant gave me a weak grin, and responded with, ‘Oh . . . hello, Padre.’ Then there was a pause which embarrassed both of us. Eventually he said, ‘That may not be the best place to stand, Father. If Jerry comes over we’re likely to be the first one clobbered.’
‘So I heard. I thought I’d stroll over and maybe bring you the luck of the Devil.’
‘Thank you, sir, but it would be best if you just moved on.’
I sensed that he was just about to shake his head when his little Captain did something to prove that he was psychic. Or maybe he just heard us. We both heard his voice booming across the field at us.
‘Mr Cummings . . . move that fucking tank into cover before Jerry gets his sights on you, and does the bold Padre a mischief. Look lively now!’
I felt it was prudent to get well out of his way. The Comet’s engine gave great bellowing gouts of sound and smoke as it turned in its own length, and got niftily under a thick willow. Blackbirds and larks sang; they hadn’t paused for a minute. Fred’s smoke drifted away on the breeze. Cummings was out and on the ground as I pushed into the shadow of the great tree. The hatch above the driver opened; he leaned into it and said, ‘OK boys, secure her please. Then you can get some air.’ To me he said, ‘Thank you,’ again.
‘Don’t mention it. I was getting bored.’
‘What I will mention, sir, if you don’t mind . . . is that you’re a bloody odd sort of Padre.’
‘It’s a new line for me. Six months ago I was a wireless op in a Lancaster. I probably flew over your head a couple of times. Who’s Fred?’ I pointed at the picture of the defecating dog. Cummings laughed.
‘My dad’s dog. Shits anywhere; like us.’
Before his crew dismounted he leaned towards me and said quietly, ‘There’s a village less than a mile away. I was thinking of wandering over for a looksee. It will help to kill the time.’ When I failed to respond he added, ‘You said that you were bored, sir?’
‘Good idea, Sergeant.’ I shoved out my hand, feeling a bit stupid. ‘My name’s Charlie Bassett, what’s yours?’
‘You know it’s Cummings. It’s Alfred. Alf, or Fred. Like the craphound.’
After a hesitation he shook my hand. It’s bloody socialism for you; I called him Fred, and his driver Doug, and they called me sir, and it was me that was supposed to feel uncomfortable. Doug toted an empty pack, an empty gas-mask case, and a .303 short Lee Enfield rifle with a full magazine. He looked as if he knew what to do with it.
*
The village was called Brond. It had its own road sign.
‘I knew a fat Scotchman called that, once,’ Cummings told me. ‘We could be in luck.’
We walked into it from the south. It was a single wide street which was split by a spired church into a narrow Y at its north end. Cummings waved us back, and Doug and I fell in behind him, a six-foot gap between each of us. Cummings walked the walk, and we matched him. I hoped that no one was watching. What the hell had my curiosity got me into this time? Halfway up the street it opened out into a small square containing a huge and ornate bronze fountain. A big house on the square had been the Gendarmerie. It was burnt out; the rest of the place was relatively undamaged, if empty.
When I looked up I saw the other soldiers. They were moving down the road towards us in open order. Four Yanks. They closed to a single file to pass us, but never looked up as they walked through. No eye contact. Their uniforms were clean, and they were freshly washed and shaven. Even so, I knew immediately there was something not right about them. Something that made me shiver.
Doug said, ‘Aye, aye chums,’ to them as they trod warily past, but they ignored us.
Cummings muttered, ‘Eyes front,’ as if he bloody meant it. Then, ‘Don’t look at them. Don’t look back.’ The last bit was in an urgent undertone. I’ve had to do this before: write down something I’ve seen, and still don’t believe in. I’d seen something like it before, you see, so I knew what they were, that American patrol with the faded red triangles sewn to the shoulders of their uniform jackets. I knew they were dead men, walking to nowhere. Some people call them ghosts. I suppose Cummings knew that too: I suppose that he, too, had seen something like them before. Twenty paces further and Cummings said, ‘OK, lad,’ to Doug, and to me, ‘You’ll say something for those Yanks, Father? Once we reach the church, if it’s safe to go in?’
‘Of course I will,’ I told him.
We went into three houses, and then gave up on it. The houses weren’t knocked about at all; just empty. No furniture, nothing. Early vegetables in the back gardens needed thinning, and front gardens were overdue for attention. In the third and largest house we went into there was a modern Bakelite telephone in the hallway. I picked it up, there was that activity sound, and a sweet woman’s voice asked me in halting French which number I wished to reach. I told her I didn’t have the number, but could she connect me to the ARC Grand Central Club in Paris? She asked me where I was calling from. I told her Brond, and gave her the number on the phone cradle. The girl who answered at the ARC was a cheerful American. I asked, ‘Is Emily back yet? Miss Emily Rea. This is Pilot Officer Bassett, RAF. She asked me to contact her.’ It wasn’t exactly a
